


Of Silly Consulting Detectives and Competent Ex-Army Doctors IV

by days_of_storm



Series: Of Silly Consulting Detectives and Competent Ex-Army Doctors [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Accidents, Bathtub Sex, Cold Feet, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Humor, Loneliness, M/M, Phone Sex, Prison, Prison Sex, Sexy John, Sexy Times, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock isn't home and John is needy, Tea, Winter fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-20 19:21:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9508796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days_of_storm/pseuds/days_of_storm
Summary: John is cold and Sherlock isn't there to warm him up. (It's a bit silly, but silliness is needed in times like these.)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [verityburns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/verityburns/gifts).



> This is the annual birthday fic for Verity Burns. Happy birthday, darling <3 I hope you have a splendid day!

It was a cold night in London. And it was cold in Baker Street. And it was cold in flat 221B of said street. And, most irritatingly, so were the feet of one ex-army doctor who lay alone in the bed of a very silly consulting detective – the only one in the world, to be fair, but silly all the same – who was currently absent from his bed. 

John had tried socks. He had tried a hot water bottle. He had tried wrapping his feet in an additional blanket, but it did not matter what he did, his feet remained cold as ice. 

With a sigh he gave up trying to sleep and sat up, rubbing warmth into his feet. This would not do. 

He reached out for his phone and dialed Sherlock’s number. He yawned as he waited for Sherlock to pick up and he still yawned when Sherlock did. So there was an awkward pause in which neither of them spoke until John suddenly sneezed, loudly, right into his speaker. 

“John. I am not sure what I am supposed to do with that.”

“Sorry,” John sniffed. “I did not mean to …” He was interrupted by a second sneeze. 

Sherlock waited for more information while John scrambled to find some tissues. 

“I think I caught a cold.”

“You think,” Sherlock commented unhelpfully.

“And it’s your fault.”

“How so? I’m not anywhere near you and I have not been in contact with anyone who would have …”

“You’re not here to warm me up.”

“John, you know that you don’t just catch a cold when you are cold. You are the doctor of the two of us.”

“Psychosomatic, then.”

“Oh, John.”

John sighed. “I know, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to blame you, it’s just that … it’s really cold and usually you are here to help with that.”

“I’ll be home in two days.”

“I might have frozen to death by then.”

“You know that we have central heating and a fireplace.”

“No, seriously? Why didn’t you say anything sooner …”

“Not funny.”

“I’m not amused.”

“You do feel quite sorry for yourself right now.”

“Are you just resorting to stating the obvious, something, let me remind you, that you hate if anyone else does it?”

Sherlock huffed and John hated that he couldn’t see him to tell whether he was amused or annoyed, or both. 

“Come home?”

“I can’t.”

“Tomorrow?”

“I have the case.”

“I know. Still. Solve it?”

“I am.”

“Solve it faster.”

“So I can come and act as your foot warmer?”

“Yes. Please.”

This time Sherlock chuckled. “I miss you, too.”

“Just hurry up?”

“I am doing my best.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’ll call you when I need your help.”

“You’d rather have me there with you.”

“John, we talked about this.”

“Just … saying.”

“I would. You know I would.”

“I’m cold.”

“Take a bath.”

“Hmm.”

“Seriously, John. I know you are a terrible patient, so please try not to get sick?”

“Too late.”

“I don’t think so. I think that if you warmed up now, you’d be fine in the morning.”

“Fine.”

“Do it.”

“I will,” John got up and padded into the bathroom, cursing his cold feet silently. Sherlock was right, he was feeling very sorry for himself. And quite silly, too. 

“Sherlock?” John plugged the tub and opened the tabs. 

“Hmm?”

“Am I bothering you?”

“No.”

“Sure?”

“I am in a jail cell, John. It’s the middle of the night. I can’t go anywhere or do anything.”

“You could be thinking,” John pulled off his pyjama bottoms and unbuttoned his top. “Or sleeping for that matter.”

“Say it.”

“Say what?” John stepped into the tub, moaning at the heat that enveloped his feet. “God, yes.”

“What else did you think I might be doing?”

“Sherlock Holmes!” John managed to sound truly scandalized. “Are you proposing phone sex?”

Silence.

“Are you?” John asked, amused and a tiny little bit turned on by the thought.

“I can’t. I only have the clothes I am wearing right now and there is a security camera in my cell.”

“Well,” John grinned. “You are in solitary confinement for now and you could turn your back to the camera. They don’t usually record sound.”

“No, they don’t,” Sherlock affirmed. “Still.”

“In that case,” John turned off the water and slowly let himself sink into the tub, groaning with pleasure. 

“John!”

“It was your idea.”

“What was?”

“The bath. And the sex.”

“I haven’t said a single word about that.”

“But you have thought about it.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I bet you are thinking about it now, though.”

Silence.

“And that you are dying to touch yourself, now that you know I am naked in the bathtub.”

A small cough. 

“And that I feel worlds better than I have just a few minutes ago.”

“I’m glad you feel better.”

“Has anybody been checking on you?” John closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth, imagining Sherlock in the room with him while simultaneously imagining himself in Sherlock’s cell. 

“No, they brought me dinner and then left me. Said they needed to leave to make sure nobody would suspect anything.”

“You have a theory on which one of the guards is the murderer, right?”

“More than a theory.”

“Good.”

“John?”

“Hmm?”

“It’s boring without you.”

“I’m not bored right now.”

“That is because you are in the bathtub, talking to me, touching yourself.”

“Who said anything about touching myself?” John grinned, slowly stroking himself into hardness.

“Your voice did and your breathing pattern.”

“I could just be really happy about the bath.”

“Nah, you’ve done that a few minutes ago. This is different.”

“You’re uncanny sometimes.”

“So you are touching yourself?”

“Hmm. Are you?”

“I told you...”

“Sherlock, you don’t usually give a fuck about decency. Why now?” John stopped touching himself, wanting to wait for Sherlock. 

“It’s not very … welcoming here.”

“So close your eyes and pretend.”

“Fine.”

“Okay,” John shook off the water from his right hand and switched his phone to his right, letting his left travel down his body again. “Open your trousers.”

“They don’t even have buttons on these trousers.”

“What?” John laughed in disbelief. “They made you wear the uniform?”

“John, I’m pretending to be a recently transferred sadistic murderer, so obviously I am wearing the uniform.”

“Pretend they are your pyjamas?”

Sherlock was quiet for a while and John could hear him move around a bit. 

“You okay?”

“Hmm, this might actually work.”

John smiled. “Good.”

“I can’t believe I am touching myself. In a prison cell.”

John chuckled. “Pretend you’re in bed? I’m in the bath. You can hear me,” he sighed, pushing his hips up so Sherlock could hear the splash of the water as he stroked himself. 

“Hmm.”

“And you try to be quiet, but I know you can hear me and I know where your hands are.”

“Where,” just a breath. 

John smirked, considering asking Sherlock to finger himself, but he knew that would be stretching it a bit. “You are slowly …”

Sherlock made a small noise which was the most delightful sound John had heard all day – it was a clear sign that Sherlock’s imagination had taken over and that he had skipped the slow in favour of the fast and the desperate. 

“Don’t,” John warned him. 

“Don’t what,” Sherlock gasped, making John move faster, too. 

“Don’t come yet.”

“I’m not. Yet. Not. Yet. Oh …”

“Sherlock?” 

“Fuck, John. Fuck.”

“What?” John wasn’t sure whether he should slow down, feeling that he was getting close. 

“Just … I. I need you.”

“I’m right here.”

“Well, yes, exactly. I don’t think I can come like this.”

John bit his lip. “Calm down, love,” John tried to sound sensible, pressing his eyes closed against the pleasure of the pressure of his hand around his cock. 

Sherlock’s breath hitched. “Okay.”

“Good. Can you hear me?”

“Hmm.” John took Sherlock’s moan as an affirmative. 

“I’m close.”

Rapid breathing. A gasp, then a whimper.

“You, too. I know you are.”

Another gasp and then, suddenly, the blaring sound of an alarm.

John dropped his phone in shock, watching dumbfounded as it floated past his body and down to the bottom of the tub. “Fuck, fuck, no. Fuck.” He scrambled to pick it up and splashed a lot of water around before he managed. He almost fell out of the tub in his attempt to climb out of it and pressed his phone into a bunched up towel, cursing all the while. Then, naked and wet, he rushed into the living room, trying to find the land line phone which was buried under stacks of paper and out of battery. 

“Fuck!” John cursed again, realising that it was the first time he felt worried about Sherlock’s stint to a northern English prison in the hopes of finding a guard who had killed three prisoners in the last four months. All of the deaths had seemed to have stemmed from infighting, but the stories did not add up and eventually Sherlock had read through the reports and formulated a theory. But now it seemed that something had happened and John had no chance of checking up on him. 

He dropped down on the couch, realising only how cold the leather was once he sat, so he jumped up again and went into the kitchen. He was eternally grateful that he had bought a pound of rice just the other day, so he stuffed his phone into the jar and went to dry himself and put on some clothes. 

Sleep was impossible, and though he felt much warmer now, it was mostly worry that kept him awake and not the cold. He sat on the couch, drinking one cup of tea after another, waiting for the telephone to charge and for his cell phone to dry. 

It was six when the landline phone worked again, but Sherlock did not answer his cell phone, making John even more nervous. So he called Lestrade, waking him from deep slumber, it seemed, and reported on the issue – leaving out everything about the circumstances of why he was on the phone to Sherlock in the middle of the night and why his phone wasn’t working at the moment. 

Lestrade promised to look into it and told John to calm down. 

John made himself another cup of tea. He knew that it could be impossible to get any kind of information from the prison itself, especially as only a handful of people were part of the investigation. 

He tried to call Sherlock again and ended up listening to his mailbox message before he hung up. Eventually, he curled up on the couch, the rice jar on the coffee table next to him while the landline phone was sitting in its charging station across the room.

He must have fallen asleep, because when he opened his eyes it was bright daylight in the living room and a very tired looking Sherlock watched him from across the room.

“You’re back?” John rubbed his eyes. Had he been asleep for three days?

Sherlock smiled, seeing John’s bafflement and relief. “How is your phone doing?”

“It’s wet. Very wet.”

Sherlock cocked his head to one side. “I am sorry I did not take your calls after. I was busy.”

“Why are you back already?”

“The man made things much easier for me by trying again – or, well, wanting to. He was caught in the act, it seems.”

“And so were you?”

“Just by surprise, not by the other guards,” Sherlock chuckled. 

“Sorry I talked you into wanking in a prison cell.” John sat up, realising that just looking at Sherlock calmed him down. He was truly relieved that he was home safe and sound.

“Sorry you dropped your phone into the bathtub. It did make for a very interesting sound effect.”

John chuckled and shook his head. “You look exhausted.”

“So do you.”

“You didn’t really solve the case then, did you?”

“Well, for once I am quite grateful that the man sped things up.”

John smiled, but was interrupted by a yawn. “Bed?”

“Hmm. Though, not before …”

“Before what?” 

Sherlock smiled and held out his hand. “Before we finished what we started.”

“Oh.”

Sherlock pulled him up and then against his chest, hugging him tightly for a moment before kissing his cheek. “You called me love.”

“I was worried.” John smiled, amazed that Sherlock recorded each and every single one of his endearments and always pointed it out when he used on one him. 

They made their way into the bedroom as Sherlock was shedding his clothes, which had apparently been returned to him, and dropped them unceremoniously on the floor. 

John was a little more hesitant with undressing again, vividly remembering his freezing feet. Sherlock made the decision for him and began to take off his clothes, kissing him thoroughly each time he dropped a piece of clothing to the ground. Then he pushed John towards the bed and climbed into it after him. 

After a bit of shuffling, they were wrapped around each other and John sighed happily, letting one hand wander down from Sherlock’s shoulder to his arse. “Can we make a pact?”

“What kind of pact?” Sherlock seemed amused, kissing his temple. 

“That as long as it is below zero outside, you don’t leave me at night?”

Sherlock chuckled. “That is a very silly proposition.”

“I know.”

“Okay.”

John smiled and squeezed Sherlock’s arse. “I need to get off.”

“Hmm, me, too.”

“Much better to have you here for that.”

Sherlock chuckled and slipped his hand between their bodies. 

“Lube?”

“No.”

John squeezed again and Sherlock gasped, tightening his grip slightly.

“You were quite liking it.”

“What?” John gasped, finding that Sherlock’s hand was miraculously setting his whole body on fire. 

“Doing this on the phone.”

“Hmm. Imagining you not being able to be obvious about it might have played a part in this.”

“Want to try it again sometime?”

John groaned against his lips and nodded wordlessly. 

“Not while I’m in a prison cell, though.”

“Sherlock!”

“Hmm?”

“Kiss me.”

It did not take long for them to come, swallowing each other’s moans in deep kisses. 

“Fuck,” John murmured against his lips after they had calmed down. 

Sherlock smirked. “When we wake up.”

John laughed silently and closed his eyes, basking in the heat of Sherlock’s body pressed head to toe against him. 

It was a cold day in London. And it was still cold in Baker Street. And it was also still cold in flat 221B of said street. But, most pleasingly, the feet of one ex-army doctor who lay in the bed with a very silly consulting detective – the only one in the world, to be fair, but silly all the same – were wonderfully warm.


End file.
